


The Edges of The Worlds

by mystiri1



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystiri1/pseuds/mystiri1





	The Edges of The Worlds

It’s already morning when I roll out of bed, the sun streaming through the curtains with watery rays that say I should have been up hours ago. Once upon a time, I would have been up at the crack of dawn, waking with the ease of long training, bouncing out of my bedroll with an enthusiasm that often made the older soldiers wince. Of course, there are no soldiers here now, not even me.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a soldier.

Realistically, if I look at the seasons, it would actually be only three years. But there’s a lifetime between then and now. Three years ago, I was rising through the ranks in one of the premier mercenary outfits in the world. The commander himself had taken me under his wing, and was teaching me everything from tactics and strategy to the code by which we lived, because being mercenaries did not mean being without honour. I lapped it up, knowing he was offering me everything I’d ever dreamed of. His second, when not making sarcastic remarks about my puppy-like ways and throwing about random quotes from his favourite play, was trying to drill a little bit of culture through my thick skull. Occasionally I’d even admit to him it wasn’t so bad after all.

But Commander Hewley and Lieutenant Rhapsodos were a long way from the place that had once been known as Gongaga. I’d received a letter some time back, telling me that they were now campaigning in Wutai. Genesis was bitching about the swampy conditions, and Angeal was musing over the way local customs influenced their battle tactics. It was an offer to come back, but I already knew I didn’t fit there anymore.

I’d changed too much.

I step outside, and make a mental note to check the door later when it sags against its rope hinges. My house is rather ramshackle; I never learned anything about building more than a temporary shelter when I was a merc, and it’s a mix of what I learned then and attempts to imitate what I remember of other houses. I’m not going to win any awards for architecture, that’s for sure. Thankfully, I bought the furniture elsewhere and transported it in by cart, or I probably would be eating off the floor.

My eyes sweep across the landscape in what is a habitual survey. Every morning I step outside and look around. Every morning I’m reminded that Gongaga isn’t here any more. Not since the disaster.

The area affected by it is actually some six kilometres wide. I live on the edges of it. Only a few meters behind my house, the jungle begins. It’s wild and tangled, filled with colourful creatures and the smell of green, just how I remember it from when I was small. Only back then, the jungle was everywhere: we had to fight to keep it from swallowing the village whole and strangling us with moist green growth. Now, it hesitates outside that six kilometre radius.

The stretch just inside it is the most normal, and I’m thinking probably safe. Here, things are growing again, and while none of it has yet topped my waistline for height, the plants look normal. This is where my house is, and where I have planted the tidy plot that keeps me in fresh vegetables. I suppose if it’s not safe, I could be in for some surprises down the track. Like maybe sprouting a third eye, or a tail or something. It doesn’t really worry me, though.

Off to the other side of the house is a pen for the two chocobos I own. I don’t bother shutting the gate anymore, as they’ll always come back around midmorning for their breakfast. Considering the amount of green stuff around here, a lot of which yes, they _will_ eat, there’s something ironic about the fact that my monthly supply runs always include a good amount of their favourite greens. Makes me wonder who owns whom.

Inside what I think of as the ‘safe' zone is the weird one. A ring of land where yes, things are growing, but they’re nothing anybody would recognise. Plants and flowers twisted into bizarre shapes and in shades that are surely not natural. Some of the animals that live here, I almost recognise. Almost. But the rabbits I grew up with didn’t have teeth like that.

At the middle of it all is a wasteland. Land in shades of brown and grey, with a jagged spire of rocks and debris rising in fossilised glory at its centre. There’s no sign of the village that once stood just a little off to its left. It’s gone, as are all the people who once lived here.

I once left Gongaga because nothing exciting ever happened here, and I wanted to be a hero. I joined S Company, one of the best mercenary outfits out there, because they picked and chose their battles, and were generally looked upon with admiration. They made a difference in the world, and were known as the best. Even though I knew I was going to be a soldier, knew that I would have to kill people in battle, at the heart of it I wanted to save people. Five years in the Company maybe made me a little less naïve, but it didn’t change my basic outlook. We were soldiers, but we had helped people.

It only took one night to do what five years of warfare couldn't.

One night was all it took for Gongaga-that-was to completely disappear, although it didn’t go quietly. No, my quiet little hometown went up in an explosion of energy and power that warped the very earth itself. Somebody tried to comfort me by telling me that it would have been quick: the people there likely never felt a thing. Looking at the destruction now, I can believe it. I don’t know that it makes it any better.

Angeal was very understanding when I wanted to go see for myself. I don’t think he understood why I remained, though. I’m not sure _I_ understand it, except that it seemed like I’d missed something. I’d gone off to save the world, one job at a time, and my home, my family, the people I’d grown up with, all perished. It’s not my fault – how can it be? – but I don’t feel like I can leave.

I’ve climbed to the top of that jagged heap and looked down its hollow centre to where it glows, a brilliant blue-green that’s almost soothing to watch. I know better than to trust that feeling: it’s dangerous. That hypnotic glow is raw energy, the life of the world, and to touch it can change a person beyond all recognition. In its mildest forms you might forget everything you ever knew. In its more violent states, you could be altered out of all recognition, so that even your best friends wouldn’t know you.

Such places are usually called rifts, and are carefully watched by those who live nearby for signs of activity, lest there be an eruption like there was here. Of course, Gongaga had no warning: until that night there was no rift here.

During a mission in Nibelheim, some forsaken little mountain town that was having monster troubles, the local wise woman told me something different. She told me that such places were where the worlds brushed up against each other, sometimes with all the force of battle. Because there was more than one world involved, predicting them or their effects was quite impossible. She called them edges, not rifts, and warned me that things could come through. What happened on our world was just one layer of things, and events we couldn’t conceive of were taking place elsewhere; we saw only hints and whispers.

It’s hard to think of an eruption that consumes an entire town as a whisper.

She said she had something to show me, and I was kind of dubious. She sounded a little crazy, and I wasn’t really sure that I was willing to follow a crazy woman halfway up a mountain. But a few offhand remarks in the local tavern resulted in some startling information: Eilara Strife had lived in Nibelheim for centuries. I knew that was impossible. She looked several years younger than my mother. But even the oldest inhabitant in town remembered her looking the same when they were a child, and all of them swore to this. They sounded a little afraid of one small woman with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes and faded blonde braids, and that was ridiculous.

But it was enough to get me to follow her up the mountain.

She led me to a cave and showed me one of the most fantastical sights I’d ever seen. A pillar of crystal, multi-hued and brilliant, and glowing at its centre I could see it: a rift, locked within its gem-like prison. Or, as Eilara Strife would have it, the edges of the worlds.

I’m not sure how long I spent just staring at it, but several hours went by on that trip I can’t fully account for. Eilara tugged me free, and asked me what I thought of it.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed, my eyes still seeking to return to that crystal brilliance.

“Dangerous things often are,” she agreed. “There are conflicts going on between Above and Below: this world is caught in the middle, and what you are seeing is one of the wounds that battle has left behind it. Healing such things is a very slow process.”

“A battle?” I asked, such a word immediately catching my attention. “Between who?”

Eilara shrugged. “Angels and demons, you might call them. Although they’re just names, names are powerful things. They separate one thing from another, even when in essence they’re much the same.”

“Angels and demons? Like the stories you hear when you’re a kid?” I couldn’t help the hint of disbelief that crept into my tone then.

Eilara gave me a hard look. “Like I said, they’re just names. And stories always start somewhere, boy.”

I felt somewhat chastened, and remained quieter than usual on the trip back down the mountain. I was never really sure how much of it I believed afterwards, but I never forgot it. I certainly never forgot Eilara Strife, the small blonde woman who was rumoured to be hundreds of years old and seemed ordinary enough, baking a delicious Madeira cake for me one rainy afternoon and sitting me down in her parlour to eat it over cups of tea and old stories. In my less doubtful moments, I wondered if perhaps that was why she’d been there so long, to watch that rift and somehow help it heal, but then I’d dismiss it as superstitious nonsense.

Now I’m watching over another such rift, and wondering if there is anything I can do to fix it. Perhaps I should go back to Nibelheim some time, and ask her more questions…

There’s a crash and sharp-sounding _‘wark!’_ from the side of the house, and I recognise it as coming from Rep, one of my chocobos. He’s why I don’t worry about leaving the gate open. His name is short for Replicon, after the vicious birds that bear a surface resemblance to chocobos. A pale shade of green, he’s war-trained, and has a reputation for being mean: hence the name. The other chocobo is his mate, Sky, whose feathers are a gorgeous shade of blue. Although she’s much sweeter natured, Rep would never let any harm come to her. Especially now, when she’s egg-heavy.

But there’s something odd about the cry, not to mention that crashing sound that preceded it, so I hurry to the pen to see what’s going on.

Neither chocobo is inside the pen. They’re both standing just outside the gate, refusing to go in. Rep’s feathers are standing on end, his crest raised. His beak gapes open slightly, ready to take a chunk out of something, and his gaze is fixed with predatory intensity on the creature which is in the pen.

It takes me a few moments to realise that it is something alive, as my first impression is actually of a mass of white piled in one corner. Then that white resolves itself into quivering feathers, on wings which are far too large for any bird I’ve ever seen. Although there have been some odd mutations from further into the disaster zone, they are all small creatures. Looking at those trembling wings, it occurs to me that their span is wider than I am tall. Maybe twice over.

The mass moves, wings parting to reveal a figure between them, struggling to rise.

“What the -” I begin, then cut off the profanity that is sure to follow. It looks like a _person_.

The figure pushes himself to hands and knees, and stops, body heaving with great, shuddering breaths.

I stare. Apart from those wings – those huge, luxurious expanses of snowy white feathers – this new arrival looks human. Two arms, two legs, a head of pale blonde hair which seems to be quite dishevelled after his crash. He’s wearing some odd clothing which looks vaguely war-like in appearance, and there’s a dark patch spreading on one shoulder, crimson-black against the blue fabric. He’s wounded.

That has me rushing over to him with no thought for the possible consequences.

“Are you alright?”

Surprise has him almost collapsing to the dirt again, but he catches himself - through sheer willpower alone, I think – and lifts his head with some difficulty. I’m caught by large blue eyes. There’s something almost hypnotic about them, and I realise the shade puts me in mind of the glow of a rift. Looking into his eyes is like staring into the edges of the world. I’m reminded of my conversation with Eilara and a voice in my head whispers, _Angel_.

Things can come through the edges of the worlds.

Another sharp _‘wark’_ from Rep breaks the spell and has us both looking in his direction. But the green chocobo is now staring upwards.

“You have to get out of here!” the angel warns, a look of panic on his face as he searches the sky. “He’ll destroy you!”

“Who will?” I ask. “And what about you?”

The angel pushes himself a little more upright, tries to gain his feet and stumbles forward into me. His head barely reaches my shoulder, but he’s heavier than he looks – must be those wings.

There’s an odd rushing sound, somehow soft and ominously loud at the same time, and I turn in time to see black-booted feet landing almost delicately on the top rail of the pen. My gaze travels upwards, finding leather-clad legs and a swirling black coat. Black straps cross a muscled chest in some kind of harness. Brilliant green eyes with cat-slitted pupils stare at me and my burden with a fierce intensity as long silver hair and sooty black wings settle lightly behind him.

“Well, Cloud,” the black-winged stranger says, his voice almost casual. “It appears you’ve lost your sword. Are you giving up, or will you rely upon this puny human to save you?” There’s something in his tone that makes it sound like a purr, but it’s not a reassuring one. Looking at him, with those ink-black feathers and inhuman eyes, I think he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And the most dangerous.

 _Demon_ , the voice in my head supplies.

“I can still fight,” the angel insists. Funny, as he can’t even stand up unassisted.

“Of course you can,” the demon smirks.

For a moment, I’m completely ignored, the two of them staring at each other. Something intense and fraught with complex messages seems to hang between them. It’s electric.

Then the demon’s hand moves, and my eyes are drawn to the impossibly long sword he hold there. How did I not notice that before? Maybe I’ve been playing backwoods farmer for the past year, but I was once a member of the best merc company in the world.

Its angle is shifting, moving so that its edge is towards Cloud, and I yell, “Hey, wait a minute!”

Green eyes flick in my direction, wide with surprise.

“This is my backyard you’re standing in, and I don’t recall giving either of you permission to hold your little fight here!”

“Permission?” the demon echoes. “Why should I need your… permission?”

“Because this is my backyard!” I say, as if it were obvious. “You don’t see me showing up uninvited to your home and taking part in mortal combat, do you? Or were you never taught any manners?”

There’s an odd squeak from the angel I’m holding, and the demon’s feathers ruffle dangerously. After a moment, he says, his voice lethally soft, “There is nothing wrong with my manners.”

Another sound from the angel, Cloud, which sounds suspiciously like a snort. The demon glares at him. “In that case, I think introductions are in order. My name is Zack, and this is my home. Welcome to Gongaga village.”

The demon looks at my ramshackle house and the vast expanse of nothing with some scepticism, but his eyes return to mine with a haughty gaze. “My name is Sephiroth. I’m from -” The word he speaks next defies pronunciation and refuses to stick in my memory. I think I’m glad. Trying to figure out just how he made those sounds would likely drive me crazy.

“Cloud,” the angel in my arms murmurs.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” I reply, and with an absolutely straight face, too. “If you don’t mind, I would like to get Cloud out of the pen, as his presence is upsetting my chocobos and I was just about to give them breakfast.” The angel in my arms stiffens slightly, and the demon – Sephiroth, I correct myself – smirks.

“Go right ahead,” he says. “I don’t mind at all.”

Cloud doesn’t resist my attempts to lead him to the gate, doing his best to walk with my assistance. It would probably be easier if his wings weren’t dragging. I have the feeling some of those feathers are no longer snowy-white. It’s a pity.

The chocobos both back off when I emerge from the pen, and they hesitate to enter with Sephiroth still perched impossibly on the top rail. I continue towards the house, hearing a comical sound I recognise as Rep grumbling. Chocobos are capable of far more vocalisations than most people credit them for.

There’s the sound of flapping wings, and then a rush of air as Sephiroth lands beside me. Behind us, I hear Rep give a firm ‘kweh!’ as if to say, 'About time!' and the sound of moving chocobos as they reclaim their space.

“He’s out of the pen,” Sephiroth points out. “So where are you taking him now?”

“I’m going to put him inside the house,” I answer smoothly, “as I don’t want him upsetting the chocobos while they’re eating.”

Sephiroth gives me a suspicious glare that says he’s not buying that excuse at all, but he doesn’t object. I lead Cloud up to the door, and stare at it a moment. The door is still hanging at an odd angle, and there’s now way I’m going to fit Cloud through, wings and all.

I try, anyway. One wing hits the door, jarring Cloud’s injured shoulder. His hiss of pain is almost smothered by the sound of the door falling right off as the rope holding it in place gives way.

“I can see why you wouldn’t want us fighting to close to your home,” Sephiroth remarks. “It likely wouldn’t survive the experience. Or even the next strong breeze.”

“It may not be much, but it’s mine,” I retort, frowning darkly. I know my house isn’t much to look at, but it’s a little embarrassing for it to fall apart in front of the first guests I’ve had – well, ever. “Um, Cloud? Can you tuck your wings in a little?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cloud says apologetically, “I should have thought about this sooner.” His body tenses and suddenly all those feathers are gone.

“Where’d they go?” I ask, craning my head to stare at his back in confusion. His wings have completely disappeared, and all I can see is the blue fabric of his shirt. I can’t even see where they must have been, because the fabric is smooth and whole, except for the bloody cut where Sephiroth’s sword has punctured it.

“He put them away, of course. They’re hardly convenient to have hanging around all the time.” I could do without that superior tone Sephiroth keeps using. How am I to know that Cloud – and presumably Sephiroth, too – can make his wings vanish? They looked pretty damned solid to me just a moment ago.

But now I can manage to get Cloud inside, and over to my bed. As I lower him to the mattress, I’m grateful once again that I didn’t try to make my own furniture.

Keeping in mind what I said, I immediately cross to the barrel in which I store Sylkis greens. Yes, my birds have expensive tastes. It’s just as well the bounties from monster hunting bring in good coin, or I wouldn’t have been able to afford the roof over my head, unimpressive as it is. I grab an armful, and stalk outside. Sephiroth is waiting there. He shoots a look at the house with its wounded inhabitant, but turns to follow me as I walk back to the pen, and deliver my offering to a still-wary Rep and Sky.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“Well, I’ve fed the chocobos, so I should probably go do something about the person currently bleeding all over my bed linens.”

“Like what?”

I turn to look at Sephiroth, trying to decide just what that particular tone meant. He meets my stare with an impassive gaze. “Stop the bleeding, for one. Blood is messy, and if he dies inside my house, then I’ll have to go to all the effort of digging a grave. Those are a lot of work, you know. Plus it wouldn’t be hospitable to leave him to bleed to death.” I smile at him, an open friendly smile. As I do so, I think how long it’s been since I’ve had a conversation like this. Once I was incredibly social, and I excelled at easy banter. My sense of humour is a little strange and I often left the other participant wondering if I was as simple as I sounded. But the truth is life isn’t really as complicated as most people make it. You find the path you think is right, and you take it.

Sephiroth strikes me as the unnecessarily complicated type.

He stares at me a moment longer. “Hn.” Then with a flap of great black wings, he’s gone.

I look at the sky for a moment, thinking he can’t possibly have disappeared that quickly, and feeling a pang of loneliness. I haven’t felt lonely in all the time I’ve been here, as strange as that sounds, and my visits to the nearest village for supplies didn’t inspire any desire for conversation or company. Why this demon would reawaken that part of me, I don’t know.

 _“It’s beautiful.”_

 _“Dangerous things often are.”_

Perhaps that’s it. Sephiroth holds the same fascination for me that Eilara’s rift did. Beautiful and dangerous, and somehow I can’t stop myself from wanting to know more anyway.

But I’m not alone. While the demon may be gone, there’s a wounded angel in my bed. Time to do something about that.

 

~//~

 

I have to search for bandages, as it’s been awhile since I’ve had any use for them. I know I do have them, though; it would be foolish to live in the middle of nowhere without some simple first aid supplies, and I finally find them in a crate tucked behind several other crates. One of the things on my list of jobs to be done is to build more cupboards. As soon as I figure out the trick to making doors that fit.

“Here we go,” I say, as I return to Cloud. “Clean bandages, and this -” I wave a small vial of gold-tinted oil. “- will help prevent any infection.” I place them on the small bedside table, and realise something’s missing. “Uh, water. We need water.”

I grab a bowl of water, and then settle down on the edge of the bed, tugging at the towel I gave Cloud to stanch the flow of blood. He resists me for a moment then opens his eyes, comprehension returning. “Zack.”

“That’s me. I need to take a look at this, and I think I’m going to need your shirt off. Can you sit up?” I help lever him upright, and then we begin the difficult task of peeling the shirt off. Already the blood has slowed, and the fabric sticks to the edge of the wound. Not to mention that trying to lift an arm with a sword-hole right through the shoulder is apparently very painful. Judging by the whimper Cloud doesn’t quite manage to stifle, I’m lucky to have never had the experience. It starts the wound bleeding again, and I push down a moment of panic where my little internal voice is screaming at me, _Dammit, Zack, you’re not exactly a brilliant healer!_

I’m not a brilliant healer, or even a mediocre one, but I’m all that's here, and that will have to do.

I grab another cloth, dip it in the water, and start washing the wound clean. It seems the sword entered through the front of his shoulder and went cleanly out the back, just missing his shoulder blade. Looking at the precise, narrow cut with its clean edges, I mentally try to match it up with Sephiroth’s impossibly long blade. It appears to have been a straight thrust, without the slightest deviation from its intended path, and it must take an immense amount of skill to pull that off with such a long sword.

It’s barely two inches long, and the edges seem to want to come together. That’s reassuring, because my sewing skills are even more lacking than my ability for carpentry. I smooth the oil on the wound, front and back, then attempt to securely bandage both sides at once. The end result isn’t pretty, but it does seem functional, and Cloud looks relieved when I tell him he can lie back down again. At least until I interrupt myself with the thought I should get him some clean blankets first.

I carefully wrestle the bloodied sheets free, disturbing him as little as possible, and manage to get some clean ones mostly on the bed. He settles back with a sigh, eyes closed. I can’t help but notice he’s actually quite beautiful too, but in a softer way than the green-eyed demon.

Then his eyes flick open. “Where’s Sephiroth?”

I settle a blanket over the top of him, and hope he doesn’t notice that it has a slightly musty smell. “He took off when I said I was going to come in and try to fix up your shoulder.”

Cloud looks worried. “He might come back and try to attack you for interfering.”

“No, I’m quite sure he wouldn’t do that,” I soothe. “Remember? He was quite insistent that he did have good manners.”

Cloud gives me a look that asks, quite clearly, ‘Are you an idiot?’

I just smile back.

 

~//~

 

In the afternoon, I set out to take a look at the rift. If, as Eilara said, these two came through the edges of the worlds, there’s a chance that some further damage has been done.

Just outside the door, something catches my eye. It’s a sword, with a wide, pale blade of some metal I don’t recognise. There’s something strange about the hilt and cross-guard, with a large, gear-like mechanism at the base of the blade. Looking at it, I can see and odd pattern of lines or cracks moving up from that point. It’s an impressive sword, and it wasn’t here earlier.

It must be Cloud’s sword; the one Sephiroth accused him of losing earlier. And the demon is the only one who could have left it here.

He's definitely the complicated sort.

I look towards my goal. Even from a distance, I can see the shape of the rock spire has changed. Worry over just how it has changed distracts me from speculation about my two strange guests.

When I reach it, I discover that it seems to have almost blown out one side. I don’t know how I missed hearing that. The rocks that made up that side have been thrown for several metres in a direct line away from the spire, and blue-green is seeping out the gap, almost as it if were liquid.

I stare at it, a sick feeling in my stomach.

Squaring my shoulders, I move to the first rock. It’s damned heavy, but I manage to stagger my way to the leaking energy, and drop it in. I jump back a little when there’s a resulting splash. It’s acting as if it were a liquid, too: a slick, viscous blue-green ooze. But the top surface of the rock remains visible, so maybe this creeping fluid is just a leak of some sort, rather than an expansion of the rift itself.

I turn to get the next rock.

“What are you doing?” Sephiroth’s voice asks.

I tilt my head to find him perched near the top of the spire. “Building a dam,” I reply. I move several more rocks, and he comes a little closer.

“You are trying to keep the Lifestream from spilling everywhere?”

“The what?”

“The Lifestream. The living energy which flows through all worlds, the energy which gives them life.”

“So is it supposed to leak everywhere, then?” I ask, interested.

“No, it’s usually completely unnoticeable. It’s inside everything, not outside of it. It’s only when two or more worlds collide and injure each other that you get open wounds like this.” Sephiroth’s words had a touch of that lecturing tone again, but I didn’t mind. What he was saying was interesting.

“So rifts like this really are the edges of the world,” I muse.

“That’s one way of putting it, yes.”

“And can they be fixed?”

There’s a moment’s silence.

“Given time,” Sephiroth finally concedes, “they can heal. But they rarely do, because people are careless.”

I look at the spray of fallen rocks. “Like you and Cloud?” I ask pointedly.

There’s an irritated huff in response. “It was scarcely our intention to come here,” Sephiroth growled. “Nor, from the looks of this place, are we solely responsible for the damage.”

“No. Most of this happened three years ago. It destroyed all of Gongaga village, and a good chunk of the surrounding jungle.”

“But you’re still here.”

I paused a moment in my shifting of rocks. “I wasn’t here at the time. I grew up here, though. My family was here when the village was destroyed.” I stare at the barren expanse surrounding the rock spire. There are no graves, no plaques of commemoration. The only memorial is this same rock heap that holds the cause of it all. Gongaga is completely gone, and I doubt that anybody really cares except me. I know the villagers in the next town over think I’m crazy for wanting to stay out here, but it seems that Gongaga would be completely forgotten if I’m gone. And I’m not ready for that.

“Why do you stay?”

“Because -” I stop. Why do I stay? Because I don’t want to forget? Don’t want the world to forget? Because I think there’s something I can do, as unlikely as that seems. In the end, I tell him what I’ve told everybody else. “I need to be here.”

I may not be able to explain why, but it’s true.

Something else occurs to me. “If you didn’t mean to come here, can you go back?’

Once again, there’s silence. I look up to see Sephiroth is staring at the blue-green rift.

“Theoretically,” he says, finally speaking when I’d just about given up all hope of an answer, “if we come through the rift, then we should be able to pass back through it in the other direction.”

“Theoretically,” I repeat the word, my voice flat.

“Yes.”

“Right.” I nod. “And the possible amnesia, personality changes or physical mutations don’t concern you at all?”

“We arrived here intact,” Sephiroth points out, but he doesn’t sound so confident anymore.

“By accident.”

There’s another irritated huff, and a rush of air as he leaps off the rock to settle beside me with one of those feather-light landings of his. He shrugs, and the huge black wings disappear. I watch in surprise as he bends over and picks up a large rock with apparent ease, before adding it to my dam. He turns and gives me a haughty, expectant look.

I pick up another rock.

 

~//~

 

Sometime later, I turn to inspect our work. It’s rather haphazard, but then they looked that way to start with. It does seem to be stable, though, and I can only see the faintest blue-green glow at the base of it all. It appears our leak has stopped.

The sun is dipping low, and I’m hungry. “Well, I think it’s time for dinner,” I say, arching my back. It’s sore from all that lifting and shifting. “Are you coming?”

“You’re inviting me to dinner?”

I flick a grin in Sephiroth’s direction, amused by his incredulous tone. “Sure. You just helped me with one hell of a big job. It would be rude of me not to offer you some food after all that effort.”

“Hn.”

He keeps pace beside me as I head back to the house. After a few minutes, he points out, “It would be much quicker to fly.”

“You can go ahead if you want to,” I tell him. “I don’t have any wings, though.”

“Hn.”

Another few minute pass, then he offers, almost as though he can’t believe he’s saying it, “I could carry you.”

I stop. Part of me is thinking, _it’s only a fifteen minute walk. You shouldn’t accept offers from strange demons._ Another part is gleefully squealing, _you could fly, woohoo!_

“Well, I guess I am kind of hungry,” I concede, and moments later I’m airborne.

It doesn’t take long at all to reach the house, and there’s something thrilling about soaring through the air in Sephiroth’s arms. There’s something thrilling about being in Sephiroth’s arms, period. But I do my best to act casual when we set down, as I don’t think Sephiroth is the kind to take embarrassment well, or that this is an offer he’d usually make.

“Thank you, Sephiroth. I suppose I’d better get started on that dinner, huh?” And I walk on inside, pretending I don’t notice his hesitation before following.

“You’re back,” Cloud says, looking relieved – at least until he sees who is keeping me company. “Sephiroth.”

“Cloud.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner,” and I don’t have to turn around to see Sephiroth’s smirk as he answers that question. I can hear it.

“You know,” I interrupt, before they can move onto something sharper than barbed tones, “as the two of you appear to be stuck in this world, you might want to give something else higher priority than bashing each other’s brains in with swords at the earliest opportunity.”

“I’m sorry,” Sephiroth apologises smoothly, his eyes sliding briefly towards the blond in the bed. “It’s very rude of us to carry on our little squabble while enjoying your hospitality.” This time he doesn’t hide the smirk as he looks at Cloud, and I remember Cloud’s derisive response to his earlier claims of good manners. I think the angel has a point: while Sephiroth can certainly be very well-spoken, I’m not sure he really understands the concepts behind etiquette.

Cloud’s expression changes as the rest of my words sink in. “We’re stuck here?” Interestingly, he looks first to Sephiroth, and doesn’t seem to question the demon’s conclusions when he answers.

“It would appear so. The place we emerged was a rift, although it appears it was a pre-existing one and our… passage didn’t do any additional damage besides knocking a few rocks over. But there is still the question of how we ended up here, as there were no rifts visible where we were originally fighting.”

This latter information is news to me, and I wonder how they did end up here. It’s no wonder Sephiroth isn’t keen to just dive on into the Lifestream and see what happens. Not that any sane person would be.

I’m also thinking of what Eilara told me: conflicts between Above and Below, angels and demons. It occurs to me I’ve never asked either of them what they are, just assumed from their appearances. And assumptions, as Angeal would say, lead to mistakes. If you got a few beers in him first, he’d say it with considerably more eloquence, if somewhat earthier language.

But I got the impression that perhaps this was a conflict between two different worlds, too. So do Sephiroth and Cloud come from the same place, but opposing sides? Different worlds? Do they believe there might be a way to move safely between them? So many questions, and my curiosity is running high.

So is my appetite, and I set to making dinner with a will. If neither of them is able to leave, then I’ll have time to ask plenty of questions. And I am feeling quite upbeat at the prospect of having company for some time to come.

About halfway through making dinner another of my questions is answered. My shoulders are stiffening up, and I roll them in an attempt to loosen the muscles.

“Here, let me,” Sephiroth offers, and then long, graceful fingers are working their way into the knots in my neck and upper back. Their touch is confident, knowledgeable, and even though it’s meant to relieve pain, there’s something almost sensual in the long, firm push of his fingers against my flesh. I moan, and the sound comes out sounding just a little more sexual then I intended.

The fingers pause. Then their ministrations resume, and I can feel a slight flush heating my cheeks. Looking sideways I catch a glimpse of an expression on Cloud’s face I don’t think I’m supposed to see. It looks like… longing. Then he blinks, and it’s gone, leaving behind an expression that would rival one of Sephiroth's haughty looks for inscrutability.

Something in my head clicks, and I realise that look wasn’t for me. No, it’s for the silver-haired demon standing behind me, touching me with such surety. That’s what lies between these two, what tangles the hostility between them until the air itself feels like its humming. They may be enemies now, but they weren’t always.

Of course, this just gives me more questions.

Cloud insists on getting out of bed to eat dinner. I give him one of the two chairs, and notice that Sephiroth is watching closely as I help Cloud to the chair. It’s an intent look, but I wonder if there’s more concern hidden it than hostility. I let Sephiroth take the other chair, and stack two crates together to serve as a third for me.

About halfway through dinner, I decide to ask the first of my questions. “So if you can’t go home, what are you going to do?”

Cloud’s fork stops moving, and he stares down at his plate. I feel sorry for asking, as downcast as he looks.

“Well,” Sephiroth begins slowly, “I suppose we’ll have to find somewhere to live. And some means of income.” I don’t think he even realises that he’s used the plural, but Cloud does, and gives him a wary, almost hopeful look.

It must be frightening to find yourself in an unknown world, and whatever lies between them, the idea of losing the only person you do know can’t be easy. I’ve already concluded that Sephiroth is the more confident of the two: he seems stronger, and willing to bluff his way through things he doesn’t understand rather than lose face. It’s not always the smartest way to do things, but I’m a past master of putting on a good show in the face of disaster, and sometimes it’s all you need to carry the day. Cloud is stubborn though, and he’s not going to give in just because he’s not sure of himself.

And in the middle is me. What a lovely thought.

“Monster hunting pays well,” I inform them. “You can get paid to take out ones that have been harassing a specific area, and if you dress the carcass properly, there’s a good bounty on various parts, as well, for their properties in spells and potions. It’s what I do to keep money coming in around here. Then there’s mercenary work, from full companies to caravan guards. Neither would look down on fighters of your skill. As for somewhere to stay, you’re both welcome here for as long as you like.”

“But -” It’s Cloud who speaks up first. “You don’t even know us. Why would you make such an open-ended offer to two strangers that you found just this morning fighting in your chocobo pen?”

He looks completely bewildered; with big blue eyes and golden hair _still_ standing on end, it’s pretty cute. I grin at him. “Why not? You didn’t break anything, you’re minding your manners now, and the chocobos don’t talk much. Although if you hold up their breakfast every day, they might get angry.”

I can feel Sephiroth’s gaze on me, more suspicious than confused, and I turn to meet it. I don’t have anything to hide, after all. Two attractive, interesting men have landed on my doorstep, literally; why would I kick them out in a hurry?

“Of course,” I continue, and I can almost see Sephiroth gathering himself for the catch, “we’re gonna have to do some work on the house, or things will be a bit tight.” He blinks, and I can see him thinking that this is an acceptable price to play. “And probably some more furniture, too. Like beds.” _Or even just a bigger bed_ , my inner voice adds with a leer. I hope that thought doesn’t show on my face.

“Live together,” Cloud says, as if he almost can’t believe it, “with him.”

“I don’t recall you complaining before the fall,” Sephiroth almost snarls at him; it seems the words sting.

“I never thought you’d be the type to fall,” Cloud retorts.

I don’t say anything. It does sound like one of those stories I heard as a child, and I don’t want to interrupt a thing. But mostly, I don’t them to talk each other out of it. I wait.

Sephiroth finally looks away, distracted by a cream-and-brown moth that has flown in to flutter over the table, attracted by the lights of the house in the growing twilight. He stares at it with disapproval. “The first thing we need to do,” he says, changing the subject, “is fix that door.”

I can feel my grin return. When it comes right down to it, the reason I’ve stayed here all this time was because it felt right to stay. This feels right, too. It’s true that I have been mourning my family, my village all these years, but the time for mourning is over. Time to get back to living. I feel more like my old self than I have in years.

I still intend to stay here. It’s not what it was, but it’s still home, and I think someone should keep an eye on that rift. It _feels_ like it’s my responsibility, and I’ve always been happiest following my feelings. But now I’ll have company, and perhaps it will become more than just that, given time. I hope so.

In the meantime – and my grin takes on an anticipatory edge that would have had anyone back in my old unit ducking for cover - this is going to be fun.


End file.
